Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “Polly said your name is Maxine. Could you give us a last name to go with that, and some contact information?” Colin tried to mimic the smile Mac had used to soften up the owner.

  It didn’t work with this woman. Her posture remained stiff, her features pinched.

  “What I tell you isn’t going to be public, is it?”

  “No. It will stay in the case file.”

  She fiddled with a button on her shirt, uncertainty flashing in her eyes, but finally complied.

  “Polly told us you and Natalie were friends.” Colin finished writing and looked up. “She also said you were worried.”

  “I am.” Maxine twisted her fingers together. “It’s not like Natalie to miss work.”

  “When and where did you last talk to her?”

  “Here, on Monday.”

  “What kind of mood was she in?”

  “Happy. Upbeat. Excited. She had a hot date that night.”

  Colin didn’t need to check with Mac to know the other man’s antennas had gone up too.

  A hot date one day, missing the next.

  Suspicious.

  “With a boyfriend?”

  “No. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Not a steady one, anyway. Natalie kind of . . . she sort of played the field.”

  In other words, she slept around.

  Also a scenario more likely to lead to trouble.

  “Do you know anything about the guy she saw Monday night?”

  “Not much. She could be kind of close-mouthed about some stuff. Apparently he was a higher-class dude who didn’t want it known he went slumming at one of the bars Natalie liked.”

  “How long has she known him?”

  “He’s a new one. They met a couple of weeks ago and hooked up a few times.”

  “Did she tell you this guy’s name?”

  “Like I said, she was kind of cagey about that. At first she said it was Joe—but she thought it might be a made-up name. On Monday, she said it was Matt.”

  “Did she give you a last name?”

  “No. But she mentioned a Craig Elliott too. She said he was a friend of this guy’s from out of town, but he wasn’t there the night she dropped by to visit. First she called him Elliott, then backtracked and said it was Craig. I think she mixed up the first and last names. She was kind of flustered. She told me she saw the guy’s credit card on the counter at Matt’s house and used the number to buy some shoes for her date on Monday. I think she was worried Matt would figure it out when the guy got his bill and he’d be mad at her.”

  A logical assumption. Using someone else’s credit card wasn’t just unethical, it was illegal.

  “Do you know anything else about this Joe or Matt?”

  “Not much. She said he had kind of a germ phobia—and he lives in the country somewhere.”

  Colin stopped writing.

  A higher-class guy named Matt who lived in the country.

  Like Trish’s accountant.

  Bizarre coincidence—or was it?

  “Did Natalie have other friends who might be able to offer us any more information?”

  “I don’t think so. She was kind of a loner, except for the guys she picked up. I was probably her closest friend, but we didn’t hang out together outside of work.”

  “Can you give us the name of the bar where she met this guy, and any other bars she frequented?”

  After jotting the names down as she recited them, he closed his notebook. “Mac . . . do you have anything else?”

  “No. This was very helpful. Thanks for talking with us.”

  “You’re welcome.” The brunette stood. Twisted her fingers together. “Do you think she’s okay? I mean, we weren’t like sisters or anything, but she was always decent to me. I’d hate to think anything bad has happened to her.”

  “It’s too soon to answer that question.” Colin wrested himself free of the molded chair and stood too. “But I can promise you we’ll do our best to find her.”

  With a dip of her chin, she backed toward the door and disappeared.

  “Let’s say our good-byes to the owner and talk in the car.” Mac circled the desk. “The fumes from whatever concoctions they use in this place is making my eyes water.”

  “I’m with you.”

  Sixty seconds later, under the appreciative scrutiny of the female patrons, they bolted into the fresh air.

  Mac drew in a lungful of air. “How could anyone stand to work in there all day?”

  “You’ve got me. You’d think the EPA or OSHA would be all over places like this.” He inhaled too, then took the passenger seat.

  “So what do you think?” Mac slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “I think I’m impressed by your charm. You had Polly eating out of your hand.”

  One side of Mac’s mouth hitched up. “I seem to do better with the older ladies—Lisa being the exception. And that’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” He adjusted his seat belt. “With Parker on our radar screen, it’s an uncanny coincidence that Natalie’s date was named Matt and lived in the country.”

  “Agreed—but it’s a stretch to think they’re connected.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “True. But my top priority is Natalie. I’ll get a search warrant rolling for her apartment and car. If she’s got a computer, forensics might come up with some leads. I also want to check out this Craig Elliott and visit the bars where Natalie hung out. I’ll pull a few other guys in to assist with the bar circuit.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Since Mac was the lead case detective, this was his show to run. “You want me to see what I can find out about Elliott while you get the search warrant going?”

  “That would be helpful. Thanks.” Mac pulled into traffic. “When are you going to fit in work on the Eileen Coulter case? You have a full plate already.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I’m predicting a chunk of overtime in your future.” Mac guided the car toward the interstate.

  “Some.”

  “Anxious to see justice done . . . or to clear the slate so you can date Trish?”

  “I’ll take the fifth.”

  “Enough said.” Mac shot him a grin. “Let’s debrief some more on the two interviews we just did.”

  Colin forced himself to shift gears. Eileen Coulter’s death was much older . . . and colder . . . than Natalie James’s disappearance. It could wait a few hours.

  But no more than that.

  Sarge might think they could investigate this at their leisure, that it was a lower priority than other cases—but the strange urgency buzzing in his nerve endings . . . the feeling that danger was hovering in the shadows and could escalate at any moment . . . the disquieting sense that Trish could find herself once more in harm’s way . . . were compelling motivations to push this. Hard.

  And that included dissecting Matt Parker’s background. The man’s reputation and history might be stellar, but there were murky, turbulent waters beneath the placid surface he presented to the world.

  So however much sleep he had to forfeit, he was going to find out why Parker had been going through that evidence bag in Trish’s hallway—and why he appeared to be setting her up to look forgetful . . . and to take the rap for her mother’s death.

  “Good news, boss. We may have a lead on Elliott.”

  Dmitri Kozlov swiveled away from the panoramic view of the Miami oceanfront as Oleg Petrov spoke from his office doorway.

  “Come in. Sit.” He waved a hand across the expanse of burled walnut that formed his desktop, toward one of the plush, leather-upholstered chairs on the other side. “Tell me.”

  Oleg took the chair he’d indicated. “We had a hit on his credit card.”

  “Interesting.” Dmitri leaned back, set his elbows on the cushioned arms of his chair, and pressed his fingertips together. Why would Elliott use that card at all . . . and why now, after so many weeks? “What did he buy—and where did he buy it?”
/>   “Shoes . . . in St. Louis. For less than one hundred dollars.”

  That made no sense.

  Dmitri tapped his fingertips together. Elliott knew how the operation worked, knew the connections they had, knew their tracking abilities. Why would he risk using a credit card they could easily trace for such a small purchase?

  Whatever the reason, though, this was a welcome lead. To disappear for such a long stretch had been quite a feat. It was difficult to escape from this organization, as others had learned to their regret.

  As Elliott would learn too, once they found him.

  “You are certain it was his card?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps it has been stolen.”

  “That’s possible. Or he might have used it by mistake.”

  Not likely. Elliott was impatient and greedy, but he was also meticulous. There was a story behind his sudden reppearance.

  But as long as it led them to him, that story was irrelevant.

  “Touch base with our contacts who have access to law enforcement in St. Louis. See if his name is on police radar.”

  “As you wish.”

  A hint of reluctance underscored the man’s words, and Dmitri studied him. “You have concerns?”

  “Yes.”

  If anyone else had been sitting across from him, Dmitri would have dismissed such a reservation with a flip of his hand. But Oleg had been in his employ for more than three decades. He was smart, played by the rules of the organization, and had keen insights. Dmitri might run the show in southern Florida, but trusted lieutenants were worth their weight in gold—and Oleg’s thoughtful analysis of situations had proven valuable in the past.

  “Tell me.” He leaned back and laced his fingers over his flat stomach.

  “I do not think you will want to hear what I have to say.”

  “I would not ask if I did not want to hear. Speak.”

  “Very well.” He smoothed a hand down the knife crease in his slacks, and when he continued, his words were careful and precise. “We have already expended great time and effort on this search. I am wondering if pursuing it further is the best use of our resources and contacts. This will require cashing in favors that could be reserved for larger matters.”

  “He stole from the organization, Oleg.”

  “Yes. Eighty-five thousand dollars over eighteen months. But that is small change for us.”

  “Small change adds up. Worse, if he gets away with this, others will try to do the same, with less fear of reprisal.” He rocked back in his chair, weighed Oleg’s input . . . but in the end stayed with his original choice. “I appreciate your honesty and your recommendation, but we must make an example of him. It is the betrayal more than the theft that must be punished.”

  “As you wish. I will begin to make inquiries.” Oleg rose, all hesitation gone.

  Dmitri smiled his approval. As always, Oleg understood his role in the organization, accepted the decisions of his superiors, and would carry out orders. A good man.

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Of course.” With a slight bow, Oleg retreated from the office.

  Once the door closed behind him, Dmitri again rotated his chair toward the expanse of glass that offered a commanding view of the sparkling blue ocean. This lead was positive news, and they would exploit it until Elliott was found—and paid the price for his betrayal.

  Too bad he’d turned rogue, though. The man had amazing talent with numbers. His ability to structure transactions to avoid bank reporting requirements had been of great value to the organization. Bigger rewards would have come his way, had his skills continued to contribute to their coffers.

  But he’d lost patience and succumbed to the temptation of greed, using those very skills to his own advantage. His stellar financial talent and ability to juggle numbers were no doubt the reason his skimming had gone unnoticed for eighteen months, despite close oversight of his work.

  That might also be the reason he’d taken a new identity when he’d moved to Miami five years ago. Perhaps he’d pulled a similar stunt somewhere else—though they’d never discovered his original name, despite diligent background checks. He’d done an excellent job erasing his past. But they’d watched him for months, monitored their police contacts to make certain his new identity wasn’t on law enforcement radar, before “promoting” him from club manager to a more useful role in the organization.

  Then he’d violated their trust.

  The phone rang, and Dmitri turned his back on the stunning view to pick it up, putting Elliott out of his mind. There was no reason to waste worry on him now that he’d surfaced. He would be found.

  And this time, there would be no escape.

  16

  What an odd start to her Friday.

  Frowning, Trish watched Matt drive away from the meeting he’d requested. She couldn’t fault the logic of his suggestion to change charitable foundation donations from physical checks to electronic funds transfers. Her mom might have preferred the old-fashioned method of making donations, even after the stroke had impaired the fine motor skills in her hand and left her signature almost illegible, but it made sense to move the process into the modern world.

  Yet for reasons she couldn’t explain, it didn’t feel right.

  And Matt had not been happy with her decision to maintain the status quo. His inflection and expression had remained agreeable, but anger had lurked in the depths of his eyes. It had flared again when she’d demurred after he’d pushed her to make him a trustee on at least an interim basis.

  Was he displeased because she was hindering his efforts to do what he thought best for the trust . . . or was there a darker reason for his irritation?

  Her phone trilled in the kitchen, and she jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

  Goodness. She was way too jittery.

  Squaring her shoulders, she closed the door, locked it, and marched toward the back of the house. She needed to get her nerves under control. So what if Matt was acting a bit out of character? His odd behavior and subtle personality changes could be related to his concussion and have nothing to do with her—despite the suspicions that were beginning to swirl around him.

  And if those suspicions did have any basis in reality?

  Colin would nail him.

  The very man whose name had popped up on the screen of her cell.

  She snatched up the phone from the counter and put it to her ear. “Good morning. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”

  “Very.”

  “Best news I’ve had this morning. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “At eight thirty?”

  “School’s out. I was afraid you might be sleeping in.”

  “No. My body clock wakes me every morning at six thirty. I’ve already had a meeting today. Matt stopped by.”

  “Why?” His tone sharpened.

  “To discuss a few things about the foundation—and push me again to appoint him as a trustee. I know it’s a legal requirement, and I know he’s qualified, but with all that’s been going on, I’m not comfortable putting him into that slot.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “I was more diplomatic in my phrasing. But he wasn’t happy about it—or the fact that I balked at his suggestion to get rid of physical checks and make contributions electronically.”

  “Why would he care about that one way or the other?”

  “I guess he’s trying to be diligent about doing his job. He said electronic contributions are protocol for foundations. They’re cleaner and easier to track.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “It’s not that.” She began to pace. “But I’m still getting unsettling vibes. When I mentioned I’d reviewed the material he left on his last visit and told him I found it in the CSU bag instead of on the chair in the foyer, he went into that you’re-under-too-much-stress-and-it’s-taking-a-toll routine again.” A shiver rippled through her. “I don’t
want to believe he’s involved in anything underhanded, but . . .”

  “But it feels like you’re being set up.”

  “Yeah. For the life of me, though, I can’t figure out why. Matt’s always been aboveboard and reliable. Why would he want to undermine my mental capacities?”

  “If we knew that, I have a feeling a lot of pieces would fall into place. That’s why I called—to assure you I’m working on getting answers to our questions. Other cases have required my attention, but I’ll have a chance today to continue digging. I do have one question for you. Has Parker ever mentioned someone by the name of Craig Elliott?”

  “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “Elliott’s name came up in another case and I wondered if there might be a connection. It’s a long shot, but I’m going to see where the trail leads. What’s on your agenda today?”

  “I’m finally going down to school to clean out my classroom. The summer program starts in ten days.”

  Several beats ticked by. “Can you wait until tomorrow? I could loan you an extra pair of hands to speed up the job—and I take orders well.”

  Warmth bubbled up in her heart. “I hate to infringe on your Saturday.”

  “It’s not an infringement. Given the mugging and safety concerns, it’s a legitimate opportunity to see you that doesn’t qualify as a date. Think of me as your protection detail.”

  “When you put it that way . . . does nine o’clock work, or is Saturday your day to sleep in?”

  “Sleeping in is a luxury I rarely have. Nine is fine. How’s the arm?”

  “It’s not too pretty, but it doesn’t hurt—and as far as I can tell, it appears to be healing well. I’m getting the stitches out this afternoon.”

  “In that case, plan on me doing any heavy lifting tomorrow. You need to give that another week or two of healing before you put any strain on it.”

  “Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

  “I’ve had my share of stitches.”

  “Job related?”

  “Some.”

  Silence.

  He didn’t want to talk about his own injuries.

  Fine with her. Violence might be part of his job, but if he’d been shot or stabbed in the line of duty, she wasn’t up to hearing about the ongoing risks of his career just yet.